


Lightning Strikes

by kreiderrider



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Sharing a Bed, awkward nerd chris, this is all very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kreiderrider/pseuds/kreiderrider
Summary: Chris, who you meet at a grad-level literature course at NYU, has invited you over to study-- but a severe storm rolls through, knocking the power out. When there's only one place to sleep, it's harder to ignore your mutual attraction.
Relationships: Chris Kreider/Reader
Kudos: 14





	Lightning Strikes

You stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, a half-empty mug of hot cocoa in your hand, your breath fogging up the glass. “Looks like the whole block,” you reported, looking out at a pitch-black street, lightning briefly illuminating the rain-slick streets. “And across the way, too. Everyone’s power is out.”

A soft glow lit the room, and you turned to see Chris lighting a couple of pillar candles before joining you at the window. “You going to go home in this?”

It was already 11. You’d been over at your friend’s house since 5. You’d been working on homework together; he was taking summer grad classes in literature at NYU, and you’d met in a class last year. This year, you were both in medieval British literature together. It was your favorite, and decidedly not his, so you’d suggested takeout and study time. You had spent two hours on the structure of alliterative verse with _Beowulf_ , during which you’d caught him grinning at you more than once as you lauded the Anglo-Saxons for their style.

The storms weren’t supposed to be this bad, but a huge thunderclap had punctuated the loss of power, and the streets were less like streets and more like little rivers at this point. The front had made it unseasonably cold; you were shivering at the window, even without the air conditioning on. “I’d really rather not,” you said to him.

“So stay.” You detected a note of happiness in his voice. “Are you getting hungry again? I have some apple crisp I could warm up.”  
  
“That sounds great, actually,” you replied, just noticing the rumble in your stomach. “Wait. The power’s out, how are you going to warm it up?”

He slid across the floor in socked feet and disappeared into the kitchen, lighting the gas stove, then set the foil dish atop the flame. “There are ways.”

“Innovative.”

“I’m going to go get pillows,” he said. “I want to sit on the floor next to the window and eat. Do you want me to dig out something for you to wear for pajamas?”

You were in skinny jeans, and you definitely did not want to sleep in them. “Yeah, that would be great, thanks! I’ll get some dishes. Hey, do you still have vanilla ice cream?”

He grabbed one of the pillar candles for light. “I think so, just dig around in the freezer.”

You took up the other candle and brought it into the kitchen, rummaging around in the cupboards for small plates. Your stomach, you thought privately, was sending mixed signals; you weren’t sure if this was hunger or the proverbial butterflies, but you couldn’t shake the nervous excitement. _What if,_ you allowed yourself to wonder, _what if something happens between us?_

“Aww,” you heard his exasperated voice from the other room. “Shit.”

You followed his voice and saw what he was swearing about. He’d left his bedroom window open; his bed was soaked.

“Oh my God, Chris,” you laughed.

“I’m such a dumb shit,” he groaned, but he was smiling, shaking his head. In his hand, he held a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. “I have pj’s, though.”

“Well, we’re going to have a slumber party in the livingroom tonight, then,” you declared, pulling a throw from the chair in the corner. “Where’s the linen closet?” You silently hoped he had one—and that he had it stocked.

He led you to the darkened hallway, where he opened the slim closet, and you pulled out the extras together: a couple of sheets and a threadbare duvet. “I wasn’t going to keep this,” he said, slinging the duvet over his shoulder. “This was mine at college.”

“Good thing you have it.” You led him out to his own livingroom and dumped an armload of stuff on the floor, directly in front of both the fireplace, which was in front of you, and the window, which was to the right.

He added the duvet to the pile while you plucked the pillows from the couch. “Does your fireplace light?”

“Yeah, it’s a gas one,” he said.

While he worked on getting it started, you went down the hall to change. He’d given you one of his old Boston College shirts, which had been worn to the point of softness, and a pair of thin drawstring pajama pants; they didn’t fit quite right, but they’d work. At the last moment, you ditched your bra, too, folding it into your jeans—no use being uncomfortable. It was _Chris,_ after all; he wouldn’t be weird about it. Then you headed to the kitchen to retrieve the apple crisp, which had begun to mix with the woody candles to fill the house with a delicious, comforting scent.

When you emerged into the livingroom with two plates of apple crisp and ice cream, Chris had the fire going and the blankets and pillows were arranged in a sort of nest.

He caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye, and the silence hung for just long enough to be the tiniest bit awkward. “I think your heating innovation worked; they’re warm,” you said, to fill the silence, and he nodded.

“Hopefully all the way through.”

“Yeah.”

You joined him, settling into the pile of blankets and pillows, and gazed out at the city through the rain. For a moment, you ate in silence, listening to the rain thrash the windows and the thunder echo off the buildings.

“The cell is huge,” Chris said after a while. “I looked at the radar on my phone while you were changing. This is going to last for hours.”

“Good thing storms relax me,” you said. “It shouldn’t be hard for me to fall asleep.”

“Not for a while, I hope. You said this was a slumber party. We have to stay up late. It’s the rules.”

 _What if, what if, what if,_ you sang in your mind.

“If you want to stay up,” you ventured, “what should we do? We certainly can’t read _Beowulf_ by candlelight.”

“Too dark for me to beat you in Scrabble again,” he said.

You screwed up your face in mock indignation. “Only because you’re good at strategy,” you protested. “I still have a better vocabulary.” You paused. “No Netflix documentaries with the power out.”

“Only chill,” he laughed.

You didn’t laugh.

He busied himself with a large spoonful of ice cream.

“I mean,” you said, poking at your apple crisp with a fork, “it’s an option.”

When he was finally able to speak again, it was in a measured voice. “I don’t want—no, that’s not right. I _do_ want.” He laughed nervously. “It’s just—well, okay, this sounds serious, but… what are you looking for?” He was stumbling all over his words, and it was pretty adorable.

“What am I looking for?”

He sighed. “Okay. I like you too much for just some one-night-stand or a friends with benefits situation. The truth is, I’ve been trying to figure out how to communicate that without risking the loss of our friendship. I’d like us to be… something more.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Kind of?” He exhaled, laughing. “I suck so much at this. God.”

You set down your now-empty plate and moved closer to him. “You’re awkward as hell, Chris, but you have to know that’s part of your charm.”

“Are you saying yes?”

“Yes.”

He stared at you for a moment and reached out to you, plunging his fingers into your hair, letting his palm cup your cheek. “I never imagined you’d have any interest.”

You turned into his hand, kissing his palm. “I have a lot of interest.” You leaned in close, and your eyes closed automatically as your lips brushed his for the first time; _no, open eyes,_ you thought, and you let them flutter open again, drinking in the sight of him so close to you: the sprinkling of tiny freckles on his skin, the faint lines etched near his eyes from thousands of wide grins, the long eyelashes framing his closed eyes.

His lips were soft, and his tongue emerged from between them, quick and gentle, a question. You parted yours to allow him inside. He tasted like apples and vanilla. He curled his tongue behind your teeth, and then everything was together: tongues, lips, his hand and your waist…

You weren’t sure who initiated it, but the next thing you knew, you were falling over together into the nest of blankets, apple crisp and ice cream forgotten.

One strong arm circled you and pulled you in close, which you were thankful for; suddenly, you couldn’t get close enough. Pressed up against him, your lips still on his, you wanted even more contact. His hand traveled up your back and found your hair, his fingers twisting around strands, and you realized that this could go much further than you thought. _What if, what if—_

You brought your hand to his ass and pulled him to you, and instantly knew why he’d been shy to make contact with every part of your body. He was hard already. You could practically hear him blush.

He squirmed, but you smiled against his lips. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

“It’s hard—”

“I know.”

“It’s hard _not to be embarrassed,_ ” he laughed. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. I actually am pretty sure I love you. I know I’m not supposed to say that, but I’m just making a mess of everything tonight.”

All you could do was kiss him again, this time wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. The words echoed in your mind: _pretty sure I love you._ Your heart pounded your ribcage like the raindrops pounded the window, and it was too much, your dreams all coming true at once. You stopped kissing him for a moment, but held on to him, leaving your foreheads touching.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“’I love you, too’ would be a good start,” he said, his eyes crinkling up as he grinned.

“It seems like an understatement,” you told him, and it really did; you’d been harboring feelings for him for nearly a year, after the day you’d met up at a coffee shop to peer-edit your term papers way last summer. You remembered it like it was yesterday, walking to the bus stop with a new feeling in your chest that made you walk a little bit lighter. “I’ve been in love with you for a good long while.”

He kissed you, quickly, lightly. His fingers moved in a circle on your back. “I think I realized it about six months ago.”

“I’m glad I got stuck here tonight so we had to admit it,” you said, and returned to his lips.

“Me too,” he murmured.

Still, you craved more contact, and you brought your hands down to lift the hem of his shirt. Once he understood, he wriggled out of it, tossing it to the side; instead of reciprocating, he simply let you run your hands over his body, exploring the curves of every muscle, the sensitive, raised skin of his surgical scar, the gentle slope of his collarbone. He sighed, content, as your fingers explored.

“I could do this for hours,” you whispered.

His eyes were closed. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Mmm.” You kissed him at the ribs. “But it’s my turn now.”

Turning to you, he spread his hand out over your shoulder, moving slowly down your side. “You look really good in my old shirt, you know that?” he said, and tentatively lifted it from your torso. He drew in a sharp breath when he saw that you had nothing on underneath. “God,” he exhaled. “You’re perfect.”

Every other day of the week, you felt far from perfect—but the way those brown eyes were looking at you, like you were something Bernini sculpted, made you feel divine.

 _Contact,_ your body cried, and you pulled him close so that your chests touched. You absolutely melted into him, his warm skin against yours, and he was content to hold you there for a moment, your lips finding each other again.

The storm showed no signs of stopping. A gust of wind whistled past the building, throwing sheets of rain at the window, and lightning split the sky.

And you weren’t close enough, still, and the realization was taking over: there was nothing closer than to have him inside of you. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants, and you met his eyes, searching.

Tentatively, he reached around to cup your ass in his hand. “Are we—” he managed to say between kisses.

You nodded, pushing at the waistband.

“Wait,” he whispered, even as you kissed him. “Are you sure—I mean, we haven’t technically even been on a date yet. Are you sure you want to?”

“Do _you_ want to?”

“I asked you first. I don’t want you to rush into anything that you don’t want to do, or anything you’d regret—”

“Chris,” you said impatiently, “there is nothing about this that I will ever regret. I want you. More than anything. But I don’t want to rush you either. If you’re not ready—”

In response, he cut you off with a kiss and pulled your hand back to his hips.

“It’s more than physical,” he murmured, moving his kisses to your neck. “I just need you to know that. I would wait for this for years if you wanted me to.”

“I know,” you assured him. “Same here.” You tugged his pants down, and he kicked them the rest of the way off; he untied the string on yours, and you wriggled out of them. You were left almost naked, save for his boxers and your boyshorts.

He shifted, so that you were on your back, and pressed a soft kiss to your neck, just below your ear. Then another one, below your jawline. And another, on your collarbone. Down he went, over your heart, between your breasts, and over the plane of your stomach, until his lips brushed against the lace band of your panties. Delicately, he hooked one finger on each side, slowly pulling them down, kissing as he went; you inhaled sharply as his lips touched the very tip of your opening, and continued on down your thigh, down your calf—and then your panties slipped over your toes and he flung them to the side.

 _This is it, then._ You were completely vulnerable and in his arms again as he came back up to hold you, and you sighed contentedly, kissing the hollow above his collarbone.

“Get me out of these,” he said, squirming just a bit, a slight grin on his face, and you couldn’t resist stretching up to kiss the little lines around his eyes. He touched your hair, a wordless gesture of affection, and you moved to divest him of his boxers.

You wondered how you’d fit all of him inside. Impulsively, you kissed the tip of his cock, curled your fingers around it, felt the hot skin pulse in your palm. Then you let go, coming up to meet his lips again. “I want you,” you murmured against his lips, running your fingers across his neck. “Now.”

He smiled and sat up, crossing his legs. “Come over here,” he said, extending a hand.

You understood exactly what he was doing; Chris was definitely the kind of guy to be cognizant of the fact that he was huge, which meant that there was a possibility of discomfort. This position—with you sitting in his lap—would let you control everything.Plus, it would let you be impossibly close to him.

You faced him, placed a knee on either side of him, and slowly lowered yourself down.

His face, lit by fire and lightning, was exquisite; he closed his eyes as he slipped into you, exhaled, and his lower lip briefly caught on his teeth. He stretched you to your limits, as you expected, and as you eased him inside, you didn’t know how much of him you’d be able to take. But then, finally, your inner thighs brushed his, and you knew he was buried to the hilt. For a moment you just sat there, savoring the feeling of him inside of you.

Arms around you, he kissed you again. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

“Why does that feel so natural?” He let out a nervous giggle.

“I mean, I’ve been thinking it in my brain for a while.”

“Yeah, me too.”

You began to move, slowly up and down, and he let out a moan, burying his face in your neck. “You feel incredible,” he said, half-muffled.

You kissed him in response. Over his shoulder, the far-off city lights twinkled through the veil of rain on the window. You hadn’t bothered to shut the curtains; you were sure the driving rain and the faint firelight meant that no one could see anything except for—possibly—a very vague shadow.

His lips found your neck, brushing against your pulse point beneath your jaw, and you held him even tighter. “Chris,” you whispered, continuing to rock your hips against his, keeping him deep inside of you as you moved. His hands, with fingers spread wide, roamed, up and down your back, your sides, your arms, as if he couldn’t touch enough of you.

He filled you so thoroughly that every move you made gave you a dazzlingly different sensation inside, and you closed your eyes as you tried different angles, finding the one that put the most pressure right where you wanted it.

When you found it, you let out a moan, your head dropping onto his shoulder, and Chris involuntarily dug his fingers into your skin. He held onto you as you set your pace, steadying you, whispering to you— _yes, yes—_ and your name in his mouth was driving you crazy.

He took your earlobe between his teeth, then his lips. “I want you to come,” he whispered into your ear, almost hesitantly. You were sure, if you pulled back, you’d see him blushing. His hands traveled down to your ass. “Are you close?”

You nodded, concentrating all your energy on staying right where you were, “I’m—Chris, _Chris—_ ”

He ran his hand along your side and you came hard, in the grip of his strong arms, his lips at your temple, a whispered stream of words punctuated by kisses. “That’s it, come for me, yes…”

You wilted in his arms, and he held you fast as you attempted to catch your breath.

“Can I lay you down?” he asked, and you nodded; he put you on your back, gently setting your head on a pillow. Seamlessly, without even coming out of you, he straddled you.

“What?” you asked, feeling the urge to hide your face; Chris was looking down at you with a wide smile on his face.

“I just want to remember this.” He stretched out his fingers to touch your face. “You look so beautiful in firelight.”

It was your turn to blush.

He withdrew his hand and leaned close in, wrapping you up in his arms again, and moved slowly inside you. It was easier this time; after your orgasm, you were as wet as the flooded streets outside and completely open for him.

For a split second, the room was fully illuminated; the lightning strike was close. In that instant, you could see everything: his dark eyes, the warm flush spreading across his chest, the shape of his muscles as they moved, his thick cock disappearing into you. A clap of thunder shook the walls.

“God,” Chris moaned, his breath hitching as he settled into his own rhythm. You picked your legs up—he moaned into your ear, a delicious sound—wrapped them around his hips, and locked your ankles together. He dragged his teeth on your collarbone and thrusted harder, but still, it felt like he was holding back.

“Chris.” You pushed up against him with your hips. “Don’t hold back on me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

You smiled and, impulsively, grabbed his face and kissed him. “You beautiful fucking man. You’re not going to hurt me. I promise. I don’t want you to restrain yourself at all, okay?"

“Promise you’ll tell me if it hurts.”

You kissed him again. “I promise.”

He slid into you slowly again a few more times, like he was gearing up—and then he did as you asked.

When he let go, it was like having the wind knocked out of you. For a few seconds, you couldn’t breathe at all, your eyes wide open, your body expending all of its energy trying to figure out what was happening to it. The way he plunged into you made you see stars.

And it _did_ hurt. Just the tiniest bit. But the pleasure far surpassed the pain. You supposed you were breaking your promise by not saying anything, but God, you didn’t want him to stop— _no one_ had ever made you feel like this.

Your hands found his arms, and you dragged your nails down his biceps, breathing hard, and you weren’t sure what was coming out of your mouth—some mixture of _Chris_ and _please_ and a string of invectives and moans. You could tell his focus was on you, on making you come again, and you were trying to tighten around him and you had less and less breath and the lightning struck and he moaned your name—

—and you came again, this time with his name a scream on your lips, your eyes shut tight then wide open, and he watched you intently as you rode the wave.

“I can’t,” you panted, after you’d finished, “believe, I…”

He laughed. “That we’ve felt the same way about each other for a while and could have been doing this for like six months now?”

Your head rolled to the side. “Ugh.” You reached weakly for him. “So make up for lost time. I want you to come.”

Wordlessly, he moved in you again, and it didn’t take him long to pick up speed this time. You held your breath and put your legs in the air for him again, knowing it made you tighter. “That’s going to be a favorite move,” he gasped, as you tilted your hips. “Holy shit.”

“After what you’ve done to me tonight, all I want to do is make this as good as possible for you.”

“I’m with you,” he said. “That’s what makes this as good as possible.”

 _Who are you,_ you thought, _and why the hell are you so perfect?_

“Ohh,” he moaned, “yes—yes—”

“Come for me, Chris,” you whispered, reaching for him again. “I want to feel you fill me.”

And that was all it took; suddenly he let out a yell and everything was hot and wet and then he was repeating your name until he stopped shaking.

He didn’t withdraw; you got the sense that he dreaded coming out of you, and you wanted to keep him there for as long as you could. For a moment, you just laid there, eyes closed, savoring the throb of his cock inside of you, letting him brush strands of hair from your forehead, listening to the steady rain.

“That was incredible,” he said at last. “God. I just. I love you.”

You let your eyes flutter open. “I can’t hear that from you enough, you know that?”

“I can’t help but feel like everyone would tell us we shouldn’t be saying it already.”

“Mmm. ‘Who shall give a lover any law? Love is a greater law, by my troth, than any law written by mortal man.’”

“Chaucer.”

You smiled. “I’m proud of you.”

Sighing contentedly, Chris reluctantly removed himself and held out a hand to you. After you cleaned up, guided by candlelight, you shuffled back to the livingroom together, burrowed into the nest of blankets, and fell asleep in each other’s arms, before the dying embers of the fire and the still-steady rain, more satisfied and content than either one of you had ever been before.


End file.
